


You've Earned This

by Delirious21



Category: Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, M/M, Masturbation, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:33:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25193983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delirious21/pseuds/Delirious21
Summary: Optimus returns to a mostly quiet base and is drawn out of his self loathing by a particularly unruly medic.
Relationships: Optimus Prime/Ratchet
Comments: 2
Kudos: 76





	You've Earned This

sad voy OP, just wants to see the people he loves feel good.

After patrolling the city all day, Optimus finally returned to base. Detroit was peaceful; it had been all week, and it felt like all the peace was cracking Optimus’ sanity. With nothing to do and no one to save, his processor played old memories over and over again, and never the good ones. Bits and pieces of dialogue, mostly Sentinel yelling at him and Elita-1 screaming for help: They never ended. They played over the visual memories and Optimus didn’t know how to stop them. 

He rolled up to base, but no one was in the common area, so he trudged off to the rooms. The voices in his helm dropped out a second and his audials perked up. He swore he heard something coming from Ratchet’s room. It was bad to eavesdrop, he chided himself as he leaned closer. The sound came again and it sent a shock down his spine. Oh slag, it was a moan. Optimus pressed his audial fin to the door and listened for more. There was no clanging, but someone was definitely enjoying themselves. The moaning quieted down and the door knob started to turn.

Optimus blushed hot and tried to scurry off without being seen, but a very familiar scoff had him freezing mid-step. He was so grateful for the voices to have stopped that he whirled around. Ratchet glared at him, hands on his hips, lubricant very obviously staining his thighs. Thank Primus his panels were closed. 

“Uh,” Optimus started, trying not to stare, “good evening, Ratchet.”

He scowled and marched towards Prime and jabbed a thumb in his chest. “Was a good night,” he snapped. “Until someone started listenin’ in on it!”

Optimus took a cautious step backwards, servos up in defeat. “I’m sorry, I--uh, I thought I heard something an—”

“Damn right you  _ heard  _ something! Me,  _ relaxing _ .”

“Ah, sorry,” Optimus tried. “I just. . .” He realized that the last time he heard someone like that was before Elita’s. . . and he shut up. Was it too much to ask, to want to see the ones he loved enjoying themselves? 

Ratchet watched him quietly, optics slanted. “When was the last time you relaxed, Optimus?”

He scratched the back of his neck, loathing the whispering voices and their hasty return. “I don’t think it matters,” he muttered. “Anyway, I’ll, uh, leave you to it.” 

He made to turn and walk away, but Ratchet snagged his arm. “Why don’t you join me?”

Optimus spat static.

Ratchet grinned. “C’mon kid, we’ll take it slow. Don’t think too hard about it.”

The last thing he wanted to do was think. Optimus worried his bottom lip between his dentae but didn’t resist when Ratchet tugged him along. While the doc resituated himself on the berth, Optimus stood awkwardly by the closed door. He scratched the back of his neck and muttered, “I don’t think this sort of interaction would be, um. . .” he lost his voice when Ratchet’s panels opened. Half-dried transfluid stained the insides of his thighs and his swollen red valve lips. His spike stood ramrod straight, as if it was called to attention, and Optimus’ mouth went dry. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Ratchet said. “I might be old and obsolete, but I can still take a good fraggin’.”

Optimus looked away. He couldn’t ignore the press of his spike against closed housing and the charge tingling in his spine. “Listening is one thing, Ratchet, but. . . participating?”

Ratchet propped himself up on his elbows and stared the younger mech down. “You’re drawing the line  _ now _ ? You know how many times I’ve caught you listening, on me  _ and  _ the others? Unless. . .” He looked thoughtful for a moment, then a twinkle lit up his optics. “What do you want, Optimus?”

“To watch!” Optimus covered his mouth after he blurted it. “Ah, if you don’t. . . mind?”

Ratchet gave the younger mech a rueful look as he trailed a servo through the mess between his legs. “Oh you can watch, that’s fine. But no touching.”

Optimus nodded. “Of course! I’ll respect your boundaries.”

He was so sweet and harmless that Ratchet couldn’t help but chortle. “Not my boundaries, kid. I want to see you strain, like when you’re listening in the hall. But don’t close your optics.”

“Oh.” He glanced around, worrying his servos in front of him while his tank did happy backflips. This was all he wanted, all he dreamt of. No voices haunting him, his mind swamped in pleasure only. This was his peace, or it could be. “May I sit?” he asked, motioning to a desk by the door.

“Be my guest,” Ratchet said. He watched the Prime and waited for him to situate himself on the edge of the desk before starting —well, resuming. 

Optimus’ vents hitched as he stared, rapt, following every small movement Ratchet made. Swirling a digit around his pulsing exterior node, tugging at the sensitive lips of his valve, showing a winking opening. It was all so surreal, even the noises Ratchet made, content sighs and short moans, and oh, the groan when he slipped two digits into his valve. 

Intoxicated, Optimus couldn’t remember opening his panels, and he leaned forward on the desk, trying to get closer without getting up. How long had it been since he witnessed this sort of unabashed ease, the tentative motions and rolling tides of pleasure that Ratchet so languidly embraced and enjoyed? Perhaps happiness and peace were in reach, if not in the universe, then in the individual. And this is what it looks like. 

Ratchet was speaking now, moaning obscenities, and Optimus soaked it all up as his valve dampened the desk beneath him and his spike ached. 

“Fuck, Prime,” the old medic groaned, working three digits in his valve. “Come here.”

Optimus didn’t move. “I want to see you overload,” he whispered. 

“I don’t have more than one in me, kid,” Ratchet said. He slowed his own pace. “I want to -ah- to share it with you.”

He couldn’t argue with that, and it wasn’t like he didn’t want it too. He’d left dents in Ratchet’s desk from where he held his servos back. Hadn’t he witnessed enough pleasure to finally experience his own?

Ratchet splayed his legs and Optimus fit perfectly between them. The medic was shaking, eager and on the brink of his overload. Optimus rubbed the lubricant stained insides of his thighs, thumb teasing the seams there, and slowly pushed in. There was no need for hesitation, yet he took it slow at first, despite Ratchet’s cursing. He wanted to savor it, the warmth flooding him, the instinct urging him to thrust, Ratchet pulling him down for a sloppy, uncoordinated kiss. It was all so perfect. 

“Fuck, Optimus, if you don’t start moving, I’m going to kill you,” Ratchet barked. 

Optimus couldn’t help but smile like an idiot. He was so happy, and his mind was so quiet, he rolled his hips at first, teasing more desperate noises out of Ratchet and saving them all to his memory banks. 

“You’re so gorgeous,” he rasped.

Ratchet opened his mouth to protest, but Optimus thrust hard and his protest turned to pleasure as he was railed into the berth. They clutched tight to each other, both groaning and hissing their names, helms lolling back and hips clanging together. Ratchet didn’t take long to unravel, and when he did, Optimus thrust through his overload, prolonging it and leaving Ratchet a limp, mewling mess. 

He overloaded only seconds later, when Ratchet looked up at him with half lidded optics and a loopy grin and said, “You deserve this, Optimus.”


End file.
